


Eight.

by plinys



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:07:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three simple words shouldn't be this hard to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by R. McKinley's "8 Ways to Say I Love You"

1.

He’s drunk, more drunk than he probably should be, but too drunk to regret it.

There’s liquor on his tongue making him think irrational things, the music blasting through the boiler room pulsing through him, the whole night feels surreal.

He turns over his shoulder, looking for Simmons, but she’s not there, of course not, she’d left hours ago insisting that she had homework to do and that he probably should head back as well.

But the idea of being the cool kid for once was just too much for him, for once he had accomplished something that other recognized, for once they were turning to him, clapping him on the back and congratulating him. Simmons had been part of it too, of course she had, they did everything together - and yet, she had still insisted on bailing out on the celebrations early.

Somebody says something that he can’t hear over the sound of the music. Then there are hands grabbing him hoisting him up from his seat and out the door, before his addled mind can process the two motions and object to them.

The cold air of the early morning hits him before he really realizes they’ve left the party, and even with the liquor running through his veins, he still shivers back from the cold, hissing “bloody hell,” under his breath before he falters his steps and somebody is at his shoulder with a hand to steady him.

It’s three am in the morning, one of the guy’s from his chem lab holding him up, when the idea hits him.

A terrible idea truly, but he’s drunk to recognize that before the mistake is made.

There’s a good deal of shuffling involved before he’s gotten his phone out of his pocket.

“Thank God for speed dial,” he says triumphantly, before pressing the phone to his ear.

The phone rings three times with no answer, once for each hour past midnight, oddly poetic to his drunken mind, before he is greeted with the sound of a far too familiar voicemail, _“This is Simmons, you’ve called me at a busy time, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible!”_

“Simmons - Simmons hey,” there’s a noise of somebody behind him cursing and trying to take the phone out of his hands, reminding not to say anything he’s going to regret, but he’s too tipsy to think about regret and about the next morning and what this could change, “Have I ever ment - mentioned how pretty you - you are? Cause you are! Simmons you’re bloody perfect - and I love you, in a super romantic style,” he laughs at himself, “super romantic - the most romantic of romantic, because you - you just - so pretty, god Simmons, how do you even exist?”

He doesn’t get any further before one of the guys steals the phone out of his hands and says, “don’t listen to him, he’s drunk as a skunk,” before pocketing the phone.

In the morning, he doesn’t remember a thing.

He can’t seem to focus on anything other than the pounding in the back of his skull and the way all of his limbs feel unnaturally heavy.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t notice anything is amiss when he meets Simmons in the morning for their usual cup of coffee.

In fact, he doesn’t notice anything is wrong as he goes through his day.

Not even when Lewis gives him back his phone during chem lab. He just blinks at it in confusion before complaining about a hangover and moaning about why everybody else let him drink that much.

Too busy being thankful over not having lost his phone that he misses the way Simmons, who had been sitting beside him at their lab table, flushes and looks down at her notes intently.

 

2.

He feels childish.

Except technically he never got to have a proper childhood, not with school and SHIELD - he spent his teenage years in a laboratory at a Midwestern university where everybody looked down on him because he was too young, too foreign, and too smart for his own good.

He never had moments like this, where everybody’s burnt out on finals and life, so they put their books as, instead choosing to play truth or dare and other childlike games.

It’s Sally Webber’s turn and she’s spent the last three minutes casting mischievous looks around the group, before finally declaring, “Fitz, truth or dare,” as if she’s just figured out the meaning of life.

He doesn’t bother hiding his groan. He has a good hunch what her truth would be, if the way she kept glancing at him from beneath her terribly cut bangs were any indicator.

He says, “dare,” before he can regret it.

The reply comes too soon, obviously prepared, “I dare you to kiss Simmons!”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, the only sound breaking it is the rain outside, a friendly pitter-patter that he wishes could swallow him whole.

“Okay,” Simmons says, and he’s startled to hear her agreeing to this, he had thought if anything, she would have been the one that would object. Instead, she just nods her head once, then twice, her hair like a blanket shaken out with each movement, and repeats, “okay.”

“Simmons, you don’t have to,” he starts, but then stops when she shakes her head.

“It’s just a game, Fitz,” she chides, “don’t be a chicken.”

And he’s not a coward, never has been, so he turns towards her, takes a shallow breath and starts to lean in awkwardly.

When she moves in to meet him, he tries to ignore the sound of his heart beating rapidly against his chest, telling him that this is so much more than a game.

They’re inches apart, her eyes flickering closed, casting shadows over her cheeks and he’s only then realizing that he’s wanted this the whole time.

Except, he’s wanted to do it properly with coffee and balloons, not with people staring them down watching for the second their lips touched to burst out in laughter.

He’s inches away of having something he'd only dreamed about and he can’t do it.

Because he cares about her too much, because he _loves_ her too much, to have their first kiss be a joke between friends on a rainy Thursday night.

“I forfeit,” he says, pulling back from her as quickly as he had, jerking his head away so he doesn’t have to see the look in her eyes when they finally open, “this is a stupid game anyways.”

It’s only as he’s leaving the room that he hears a voice, barely above a whisper that asks, “did I do something wrong?”

 

3.

Realizing that he was in love with his best friend was bad enough, but figuring out what to do about it wasn’t very easy.

When he had time to himself he watched romantic comedies, studied the clever moves the guys pulled, tried to figure out how to do this whole thing right. He wanted to do it right.

Would Simmons like it if he showed up at two in the morning, stood outside her window with a boom box over his head and a leather jacket?

Would it be better if he came to her on Christmas day, while her husband was upstairs with cards made of poster board professing his love for her?

Or should he show up in the rain, after breaking up her sister from the love of her life, and tell her that against all of his better judgment he had fallen for her?

By the fifth movie, he decides that romantic comedies don’t have the right idea at all, because none of the girls in the movies are like Simmons.

None of them smile at him over laboratory tables, dissect cats like it’s a sport, or make his tea just the right way.

He tries to buy her things; balloons, chocolates, teddy bears with hearts in their hands - the sort of things that Hallmark sells by the dozen during Valentine’s season, marketed to convince you that they are the guide to love and romance.

She sucks the helium out of the balloons he buys her, and together they spend an afternoon in a top secret SHIELD laboratory talking like chipmunks until a superior officer comes in and wonders who gave them Level Five security clearance.

She splits the chocolate bar with him, because that’s what friends do. He reasons later that he should have bought the heart shaped box, at least then she might have understood his meaning.

He doesn’t give her the teddy bear. He intends to, but he can’t get up the nerve, can’t bear to think about how he would feel when she doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say.

Instead, he locks it in a box at the back of his closet, only to be discovered years later when they’re leaving the comfort of their lab for a field assignment.

Simmons helping him pack, her hands, stalling as she holds the stuffed animal up, and asks, “secret admirer?”

He turns his face too quickly, hiding before she can see how he really feels and says, “oh you know, back at academy, Webber had that thing for me - I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by tossing it away,” the lie feels like lead on his tongue.

He tries not to think too long about why that is.

 

4.

They’re watching Star Wars, calling it an impromptu movie night, a break from all of the craziness that has somehow become their lives without her even noticing it.

The bunks on the Bus aren’t particularly big, but somehow they have managed to squish together on his, a mess of limbs wrapped in a quilt his mother had knitted him years ago.

 _The Empire Strikes Back_ plays on the screen in front of them, while Simmons narrates the movie even though they’ve both seen it a thousand times.

“Did you know the reason Han Solo was frozen was in case they had to cut his character-”

“because Harrison Ford didn’t sign a contract for all the two sequels,” he finishes her sentence before she can, which earns him a pinch to the side of his arm for his troubles.

“Stop ruining all my fun facts,” she replies, shoving at him, before tucking back down into the blanket and staring at the screen with new resolve.

She’s adorable and wonderful, and he wants to tell her the words that had been at the tip of his tongue since he nearly lost her less than a week prior - the words that if he’s stopped kidding himself he has wanted to tell her since he first met her, but never had been able to form them while sober, so instead pushed them down until he could pretend that he didn’t feel the same way.

So, he says it, plain and simple, “I love you,” barely more than a whisper, let’s the words off of his chest and out into the space surrounding them.

If he happens to time it so he says them at the exact same time as a character on screen does, well, it gives him an excuse for when she looks up at him in askance.

Admitting, “I’m such a nerd,” under his breath like that’s the big secret he just let out, not the fact that his feelings for her are far more than friendly.

“Are we having a state the obvious contest now?”

 

5.

She hands him the cup of tea, that tastes like heaven, prepared exactly the way he likes it, and it’s an accident when it slips out, “I love you,” purely casual, at least, that is what he aims for, taking a swallow of his tea immediately after the words - leaving them echoing in the space that surrounds them.

“What,” she asks, he’s not sure if she’s breathless or angry; her tone betrays so little and so much at the same time.

“Tea,” he sputters out, at last, ignoring the looks of the rest of the team that is gathered around the lounge and instead looks Jemma straight in the eyes and says, “I love your tea.”

“Oh, oh - oh, okay,” she replies, shuffling forward to take the seat on the opposite end of the couch mirror his position and sipping on her own cup of tea.

He tries not to read into what she’s not saying and instead makes an appreciative hum as he takes another drink of the tea, and says, “you’re like a tea goddess.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment, Jemma, truly.”

He spends the rest of the night doing his best to ignore the pointed gaze of Skye, who sitting on one of the lounge chairs typing away at her laptop heard the whole thing.

When she corners him before he can head off to his bunk that night and demands to know what the hell that was, and how long he has had feelings for Jemma, he tries to brush it off, and says, “she makes really good tea,” but it’s clear in from the look in Skye’s eyes, that she doesn’t believe him for a second.

 

6.

“You’re my best friend in the world.”

“Yeah, you’re more than that Jemma. I couldn’t find the courage to tell you. So please, let me show you.”

 

7.

There are blanks in his mind, things he can’t quite remember no matter how hard he tries.

He can’t remember how many shots he can take before it’s too many, the way his hair fizzes out when it rains, or the endings of his favorite movies.

But he remembers how she takes her tea, lies he told her when he was pretending not to fall in love with her smile, and the way it feels to be trapped at the bottom of the ocean realizing that there was only enough air for one of them to make it out alive - and knowing it had to be her to survive.

He tries to put his thoughts into words, he spends hours writing pages upon pages of words that he will never say.

Ink stains his hands, words blur together before his eyes, to the point where he sometimes forgets how language works.

He keeps them folded up under his pillow, sleeps on the words, in hopes that they will start to make sense, that he will be able to articulate the thoughts that he couldn’t even get out when he thought he was taking his final breaths.

He crosses out her name too many times to count, starts and stops only to start again.

Writes _Jemma_ until his hands are sore, until the loops of the cursive _J_ become second nature to him.

There is poetry in his very veins, words he can’t put into motion.

He sees science and reason, but there’s no science and reason behind the way he feels when he looks at her on the other side of the lab.

He tries to describe that, with words like heart palpitations, he admits that love might just be a scientific reaction, but everything about them is a chemical formula, an explosion that has been on the brink of something great for too long - so maybe it’s time to let the science do the talking.

The note crumples so easily, between his fingers when she turns to look at him, talking about the latest discovery she’s made. He tosses it in the trash when he thinks she’s not looking.

He leaves the room behind, forgets about the one note he didn’t keep locked in a drawer, isn’t in the room to see when she picks it out of the trash smoothing down the crinkles and wondering if he meant what he said.

 

8.

When he finally gets the nerve to say it, to say those three little words, properly for once, the moment almost feels silly.

Miniscule in comparison to all the time’s he’s tried to say it before, but in all of his life there has never felt like a more right moment.

There was never a moment in the entire span of human history that belongs to her more than that moment did.

He says, “I love you.”

And she replies, “I know.”

Maybe, he feels a bit like Princess Leia, but he’d gladly be the Leia to her Han Solo, if it means that she one day she’ll feel the same way.

The words are out there off of his chest and he feels freer than he has ever felt before.  

He feels free, like he’s sailing through the open sea, no longer afraid of the water that could swallow him up at any moment.

And when they kiss, properly this time, no games played by their friends, no pecks on the cheeks before they’re about to die - he feels like he’s finally home.

Months later, lying in bed one night, her fingers pointing out constellations in the glow in the dark stars they’ve stuck to the ceiling, when she laughs and says, “I love you,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him wonder why he ever doubted it before.

He tries to pretend that his heart doesn’t skip a beat, before replying, “I love you too.”  

 


End file.
